


all your tells

by daisybrien



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: DO NOT CRACK THIS BAD BOY OPEN IN PUBLIC, F/M, First Time, M/M, Multi, NOW WITH VISUALS, Other, Polyamory, Sensuality, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, also yall are kidding yourself thinking that arum fucks., fic with art, not a scalie but still kinda a coward, that lizard is a VIRGIN, this is the most porn yall are getting from me. needlessly poetic. no mention of any acts at all lol, visual art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 13:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21411313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybrien/pseuds/daisybrien
Summary: Arum is introduced to something new.(Now with bonus art! dont open this bad boy in front of ur mama)
Relationships: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla (Penumbra Podcast)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 103





	all your tells

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: 'things you do when you're nervous'
> 
> prompter's art is added at the end of the fic at her request! you can find her sfw stuff at acerunaway.tumblr.com and not ever talk about how shes drawn the naughty ever again

“My lily,” Damien says, and his voice is merely a whisper against Arum’s scales, the words sticky like sweet honey on his tongue. “My lily, what troubles you?”

Rilla pauses her ministrations at the sound of his voice, Arum barely biting down on a desperate whine of protest as her kiss-swollen lips lift from the soft skin underneath his jaw. He almost fails to open his eyes, let alone meet hers, pupils blown wide and framed by half-lidded lashes as she lavishes him greedily. He almost bucks as she presses where she’s slung across him, her knee pressing insistently between his legs where a hot desperation has begun to pool. He’s frantic, the warmth of their two bodies almost entirely overwhelming, and he has to ball a fist in the sheets underneath him as he steadies his breath.

“I’m-" his throat is tight, humming with involuntary purrs under Rilla’s lips and teeth – blunt teeth, so harmlessly blunt and yet his pulse thrums in his veins as if they could tear him to shreds (he already feels like they are devouring him) – and when he finally finds his words its on a panted breath. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Arum, my dear,” Damien croons, and his breath against his scales makes him shudder. “You are content to continue? This is okay?”

His body is alight where his scales meet their hot, naked skin, the hands exploring him with wanton curiosity leaving him shivering. The thought of another’s touch is only something that has become familiar to him, expected of his loves as they’ve made their presence known within the Keep in the past weeks as they’ve settled into each other. The concept, the thought, is not enough (anymore) to send his heart into a frenzy, shouldn’t leave his pulse buzzing like frantic nymphs when Rilla presses another languid kiss along the line of his jaw. It is the reality of the sensation, now, that leaves him pathetically overwhelmed. It inundates his every sense, more than the touch of skin to skin (although that is enough to have him searching for Damien’s warmth, grinding into Rilla’s leg again) the sight of his human’s faces lax, the sound of a gasp or a sigh or of lips pressing together, and the scent –

He scents the air again (to hide the anxious twitch of his tongue), and he can barely taste their concern underneath the heavy smell of their arousal – of his _own_ arousal, a tangible sheet around him that for a moment he feels abashed relief over the underevolved limitations of the mammalian senses. He is already so exposed, every muscle and nerve he didn’t know he possessed twitching and moving of their own accord, and he is so, so achingly hard as Rilla’s hand moves downwards –

She stops, looking to him, the furrow of her brow just slightly smoothed by the want that leaves her boneless against him. He keens, so (barely) ready, only to be denied.

“Arum, hey,” she says. The hand presses firmly against his lower stomach, startling him against the feather-light grazes they had been supplying so far, yet so comfortingly grounding in its surety. “You didn’t answer the question – Arum?”

The question is left unsaid, and he is grateful. He hasn’t been humbled to this state before – to be brought so low (and so, so high) into wordlessness at this kind of impatience (this giddy anticipation) is almost as alien as the motions he expects (and they expect) to transpire between the sheets.

“Yes,” he answers on a breath. “You – you have me. Yes. I’ve just – never -”

He swallows, his purring reaching a crescendo. The exhale that brushes against his cheek is merely a laugh, and he understands why Damien compares that heavenly tune to the chiming of bells, to birdsong. “It’s okay, if you’re nervous.”

_I’m not nervous_ he almost snaps, and he gets through the first two words before he clamps the lie between his teeth. Instead, he merely buries his face into Rilla’s hair, winds both his arms on his other side to pull Damien closer, urge his mouth towards the spot by his tympanum that makes him gasp, and his frill –

“What gave it away?” he asks (knowing the answer), the confession a sweet relief. The heady tension of the room is broken when Rilla all but snorts; Damien hides his own bashful smile against Arum’s shoulder, and he can feel the knight shaking with silent mirth.

“Give you three guesses,” Rilla chimes. She smirks at Damien, the bright look in their shared gaze a silent understanding as his thumb and forefinger move to run along the sinewy tissue of Arum’s frill. His eyes slipped closed at the sensation, soft strokes against the satiny flesh, and he can’t help but laugh at how obvious his tells are.

“You already know too much of me,” he manages, and now he is hyper vigilant over the movement of his frill, the way it twitches and fans around his head. The two lean in over him, smiling lovingly, draping over him as if they were basking in the glow of the summer sun.

“Rising from the earth,” Damien sighs, kissing Arum’s mouth, his cheek, his brow, “as green as a spring bud, anticipating its bloom-“

Arum shushes Damien with an indignant huff, Rilla giggling harder against him. Their hands press against him, on his stomach just above where he was so desperate (and anxious) to have them moments before, waiting for assent – when he looks to them, their eyes slowly begin sinking back into the warm gaze of their shared heat, soft and wanting (and loving) and glowing with that one unspoken, ever-patient question, and he knows he could give whatever answer and not feel shame rise in his cheeks.

“Yes,” he says, entirely sure even as his heart races and his breath quickens, his (traitorous) fringe all but fluttering has his anticipation reaches a gentle, euphoric peak. “I want to try this.”

“To try us,” Damien hums reverently, echoing the statement not for the first time, and Arum doesn’t bother to discern whether the way he gasps is from the emotion that wells up or the feeling of their hands finally moving downwards where he wants them.

* * *


End file.
